Monday, May 30, 2011

A dampening air paths its way.Leaking symbolic as it creeps to breathe.Shellac posturing about my skin, dripping, reeking, emblematic of sin.Blood coiled amongst jointed bone.Commotion hollers for a return home. I long, yet cannot.

A wicked movement paces thin.Dark and dreary, dreadful things, masquerading about, on a whim, demanding cheap pops to keep them in the state their in.Fire ants show their wares and marching pins, collide upon encapsulated skin, unaware, unwilling to.I hear the masters; I know their words.Reflection, pool, crimson warm then cold.As we’ll yearn, the long time since, the cleanser’s been used, yet soiled boundaries caress the folds.

Enigmatic chanting, powerful disturbances, of sects, like dominoes, knock one down, the rest will follow, at least that’s what the well-compensated, over-educated theorists claim to know.I have my doubts.

Rambling amidst a bramble, rolling fields fostering the dissidence from the recollections few, and bush for bristling eyes to gander through.Corrupting patella’s kind-some touch. Bended knee, once more, should the ending change, from last time playing with a similar point-of-view.

I do not fear the repercussions of how this confession looks to end. I’m much too old for that.My flesh is hardened, like quick drying firmaments, awakened by erosion alone.No daggers blow can alter this. No man without time can chisel deep enough.

I remember the summers spent, in the abyss, at the void.I stood, waiting, somewhat similar to what I do now, for your soul to gain release, for the penance I still strive to seek.

An oath I took many days before this minute here.It was a vow, to a higher power.A pledge to lead him in his finest hour was all that was asked of me.I agreed.I demanded steadfastness. I acknowledged the ends and means. Yet I could not harvest the patience.I could not deny my limitations, my mortality, it’s selfish desire, it’s unyielding parch.

Blind in my actions, I defiled any who cared for me.I rolled my eyes, blinking, in a rapid sense, to seal the moisture, blurring the lens, for fear of what might be on display.

I was such the cucumber back in that time, green with promise, prickled to the touch.I would take back the pleasures of youth.If this were possible, if this were a possibility, I would be standing, first in line, last to leave.However, as we all know, sin bleeds each sentence since.No image, no fragment, no dangling, tangled pitch, no aspiration, no cloud to lay, nothing, not one is free, from the comingled desires played out in those early, formative days.But still, the corruption has withered.The mania has subsided.I am different from that person.A splitting occurred, some segment, down some line.I am not absolved.But perhaps one day, forgiven.

Locket in my fist, necklace trips through empty knuckles.Flip the casing to one side.Resurrect the love I once denied.Pretending everything I know is but a vivid nightmare.Some sorrowful tale, wrote for children, attempting to instill morality to the innocent.Perhaps this is what never happened.Perhaps I was the writer, with no understanding of consequence.Maybe the writer enhanced the detrimental parts a little too much, making them more attractive than the moral ort offered at pieces’ end.

Books of questions, never answered, rest upon coffee tables, never used for beverage placement, too precious to stain, beside my bed.I would add to them as confusion, or intricacies flashed, across the minds theater-like viewing chamber. Wide-screen, genre unclassifiable, perhaps noir, perhaps thrilling to those not involved, images I most likely only recall, as imprints, as Rorschach smudges, on some underused yet overvalued canvas wiped clean.

I still make notes.I still read through each chapter, in the futility of an old man, looking to see if he, now, can answer any of them.The wish of a dying man, with no seeds spread, no legacy to hold.Loneliness is too cute a term.It is too elementary to classify, all that’s transpired, all the white space in-between. Fractals, ghosts, live.

Drenched, I string fingers through straw.Wondering when the clock shall strike.At what hour the bird shall not be heard.Perhaps, in this way alone, I’m like any other, regrettable being.Closure is an open room.You must not linger, lest a new passageway will become undone, and forever wandering you might roam.

And what do all these regrets say, when a loving family is by your side, wiping their faces clean.Each tiny tear they bleed is a loving memory they have of you.A hope that recollection will reignite, so you can remember, all the good you’ve done in life, what you have meant, still mean to them.But they know, you won’t.They know you can’t. They understand it’s not their fault, this place you’re in, includes not a single one of them. Yet they crack the window each morning, allowing light to bathe your face.

They pray.They hope.They read stories.They kiss your ignorant cheeks, momentarily altering hue. Temporarily bridging the gap, a connection that takes them individually back, to a place, a sacred place, a journey, they will not, cannot forget. They cry. They laugh. They hold each other’s hands and complete dialogue for those who stand beside.Days of old adhere to days of present.Gifts of memory, offered still.

Friday, May 27, 2011

This is a piece I wrote back in may, a character development piece for a screenplay I'm working on. D'Verse is having their weekly Poetics prompt, and the topic is trying to get into the head of someone and write as if you are the actor playing that person, or are that person. Obviously my choice is a fictional character. And just a warning, the piece is pretty disturbing.

Someone’s always left alive,

To bear witness,

I’ve spent all my life a poet,

And today, for that, my life is spared,

To watch such violence,

As your flesh, now Picasso-like,

Composed from friendly blood,

To keep composure,

To numb,

To silence,

All the aversions,

Your mind will surely throw,

For if you survive and cannot recall

You are no use to him at all,

Hours long he keeps them tied,

Radiators,

Desks,

And stoves suppress,

Your eyes,

Distorted,

Tainted forever more,

Must look away,

When they cry for you to help,

In such, confusion's solved,

They never wonder

What side you're on,

What role you play,

A role they will never understand,

In fact, I can't say that even I am so aware

When all the days have exhausted,

As all the bleach destroys stain,

Pack he does,

With myself in tow,

Locked into an unseen panel,

Of a van he will flee in,

and the darkness there is a refuge, a reprieve

No light to occupy,

No sounds to churn,

Just the noise of rocks,

Or stone-

Kicking tires,

Scraping chrome,

Then the journey shall anew,

A bantering from beyond,

I can almost see the realtor,

Smiling as he takes the hand,

Unknowing,

He would be the first,

To have his limbs severed this day,

Into the bowels I am cast,

Bound and gagged,as

They file through,

Some dirtied, others bruised,

Rarely though are the signs acute,

From sleeping victim to begging thief,

The portrait changes over time,

Branching out as before,

Never a shortage for the well to shore,

Documenting each one of them,

A plethora of character, endless though,

As often it does seem,

Fear has left me….Numb

Desire for releasing, to be the hero...quelled

I've envisioned my closing argument,

Pleading for forgiveness, I'm A VICTIM too,

I remind the jurors of, to whom my future relies...Alas,

but this is but fanciful imagination

Justice offers, or owes, me nothing

No day in court, no bargaining,

No sentencing, only sentences

Creative, albeit from a monstrous womb,

To pass the time,

Between each chapter,

I play a game, if pursuits of play

are even appropriate...but it binds me from implosion

He always takes a souvenir,

Where it goes I dare not guess,

But with each new face,

I survey their person, for additives to persona

And, it keeps me from asking, "How many more?"

My greatest work, how sad that sounds

Characters so real, because they are

So richly layered and with depths of shading...unprecedented

Fathers, daughters, sisters, mothers,

Lovers, partners, strangers too...

A myriad of outlines; no credence or bias toward,

To which, I must analyze the way he operates into,

I must confess, I've plagiarizedFrom each and all...as the exact words,born in that split-moment, just before finality,Are the kinds of voice, that simply can't be reproduced fictitiously

Is there a difference? Between his mind and my own

Is there a pattern? Am I really that different

Can I hypothesize? Do I owe him a debt of gratitude---

Should I dare attempt define? Or a pox upon?

Each moment of calculation,

What every path represents

A variable, a data set,

For what I can not,

Nor, at this point, care to know-- Yes, I'm that far removed

Just today, if the separation of day even still exists

Three men,two women Lions & lambs, both ripe for the slaughter

Each day I pray, yes pray... For a plot twist, or just any new development to siphon boredom from routine

When they are here, the innocents--which by his account, none truly ever can be, the smell of fear protrudes their pores....as it should...I'm still a realist...I still know the mind....now more than ever

Only the subtleties of accent, set them apart, hint to distances travelled, from where... It doesn't matter, but it certainly assists an accurate rendering of characterization...ever slur, twitch, tic and dialect, differentiates the countless extras needed...when this becomes film

yet agonizing pieces of morality tend to throb...."WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?" I'd shout internally, as my other shoulder begins to tingle, "they're all the same, if not them, then...well, you"

Yes, they’re all the same to me, they're not real, simply props for my artistry, yes, that's it exactly...craftwork...where research is key

The misfortune of others has lustered my personal status, blinded me with egoism, I have a very pleased Id, yet periodically, the cancer grows, that temporary shift in mental subtext, back to a time when mental composure was everything....

Who am I-

that I should be the one to survive? Back in my prior life, I wouldn't have been able to convince myself the answer, I would've sniveled in distortion, shedding a ballast of tears....But the man I have become, the evolution of self, well...the answer's simple...I have a gift, a gift he needs...a symbiosis... a pairing, he and I....he performs, and I document every detail, significant or trivial...that's why

His motto, his only creed,

Always leave one to breath,

Always leave one alive,

For a very long period now... that scribes been me, illustrating a masterpiece, one he seems pleased with, as am I

So hardened by the facets forced, I may have begun to feel invincible, a linchpin of sorts...an indispensable importance in his scheme

Today though,

All this may have changed,

As it’s come to my attention,

The number of writers,

In this place,

Is now two.. and the voice in my head fears she's better than me...but it can't end this way, I've at least, at minimum, a paragraph left to write...

Unchained he left me alone with her...Hatchet in plain view, Was he testing me? Who's he talking to up stairs? Who's there with him?

Question's of similarity flooding. Wood feels no different than any other appendage. Her eyes flooding, mascara drowning her dress...What have I become? Who am I now? and with one fell swoop, hatchet compromises bone... Never questioning..."should I try to leave?"

Frayed old man descends the stairs...He heard the screams...this I'm well aware of...Drenched red, from hair to shoe...A smile enveloped his frown, glimmering through the darkened room...

A smile that turned to a disapproving grimace, as he sees her all but whole, except for the writhing hands upon the concrete pool..."Smart...but don't feel so secure....one day, it'll be you or some other her." Sighing as he leaves....and I do as well... never questioning the scent in the air, the deafening scream, the taste of blood that's painted poetry upon my lips...Will I ever be strong enough? Will I ever live up to expectation? Perhaps...one day... Perhaps, one day I'll win his love

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

At any given moment, in any given location, an event happens. In fact, events happen everyday, in every place. There are magnitudes of depth-filled detail, going on, every second, of every day, just in the space you occupy. All you have to do is open your eyes, and you will see some of them.

With events, comes perspective, or point of view, however you wish to call it. Each incident, event, situation etc.. breeds unlimited perspective. We should take part in constant discussion, with others, with ourselves. We should compare our points-of-view. Go over them continuously.

With perspective there are no right or wrong answers. In fact answers don't exist. We only have solutions, an infinite amount of them.

Instead of looking at things so finitely, evaluate in relation to your own perspective. No matter how different your point of view may be, they are your perspectives. Take ownership. When someone looks at things similarly consider your perspective affirmed through another.

When someone's point of view differs from yours, do not play games of argument, simply understand a differential exists between your viewpoints. But don't stop there. Examine those perspectives, how did it arrive? What can you take from them? Learning never ends. Neither should understanding.

Two cars, at full speed,

The screech is heard and they collide,

Where you may drop to your knees,

Despise and descry, " Oh, the humanity,

What a day of infamy, such is the tragedy of

The fragility, the unsuspecting & unknown nature of life,"

I however think alternatively,

I see two unlike, yet similar objects attract,

Creating something different in the wreckage,

Twisted, mangled, converged and committed

In such a case, you may claim insensitivity has a stranglehold on me. I may claim you may be right. I might also say, I choose to see the possibility, even when surrounded, seemingly, by the end of light. Do not criticize others for thinking, viewing, things alternatively. Accept, the balance your two positions take, and together take flight.

A forest filled with flame and fear,

Smoke forcing the surrender of the air,

Quality of breathability’s forfeiture is slow,

Spreading, wildly, uncontrolled,

You may be unnerved, as the damage sears and scores,

Shriveled foliage atop, the once wooden, now charred floor,

I however, see the spread of warmth,

And the possibility for change to sprout

From a now fertile land,

When points delve deep enough, bluntly they become. When witnessing the world through darkened glasses, shaded images are sure to come. In a scene of calamity, be the one, if so you see, not as uncaring, but as the shoulder, as the disruptor of the darkening.

You see a murder,

I see the gun,

You see the expiration,

I watch the pool that’s begun,

Rippling, coveting the ground below

You see a doomsday tree,

I see another ring to be,

You see specters in the air,

I feel the breath of spring on napes so bare,

When you see pain

I see limits to test me thoroughly,

How far?Will the outcome change? Has another method appeared?

What to do?Will you be their for the highs and lows?

Questions will arise. Perspectives will change. Some will try to force their vision. Do not let them change you. Listen to what they say. Offer your vantage too. Even if their heat boils. Simmer still as they recoil. Allow words to pass before actions make, a bigger differential between the two of you. Be quick to observe. Be intent on processing what you see. But be quicksand, sinking slow, when it comes to labels, when it comes to condemning.

When you see a newborn, in its mother's arms,

Breathing life for the first time,

Ignorant in its innocence,

You feel her love just the same

I see the long life ahead,

All the happy moments yet to come,

All the sad strokes and failures from,

All the experience it will share,

Loving embraces,

Disgruntled faces,

But most of all,

I see a sea of aquamarine,

And its swelling waves of possibility

You may agree, yet expound. You may be the toll with which a shared philosophy must atone. You may hold the words, so soft and sweet, enough cloud on tongue, enough to solace me. I believe, but that's just me. You have every right to disagree.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

A small group of poets, myself included, got together on Twitter this past week. @moltoassai,@akischilz, @gustavojmata,@poeticalpsyche (me), and @isabelmbush. These are our handles on twitter, feel free to follow us for our own unique blend of poetical musings. This is also the order for this first #Communalpoem, the hashtag where you can see how the process evolved, every line, inspiration and bump of it.

This first Communal Poem is a ten line piece. Lines 1-5 are composed in the order listed above. Lines 6-10 are in reverse order. Snake-like winding for any of those familiar with Fantasy Sports drafting. Each of the lines in this poem also serve as a portal to the website of the poet who composed that line.

Please check out each of the links and enjoy the contributing poets personal sites. I'm sure there will be plenty for you to enjoy.

Finally, if you're on twitter, grab some friends and compose a communalpoem of your own. Feel free to save all your project posts to #communalpoem so the world can watch your creativity unfold. All I ask is that if you see a current communalpoem in progress you watch as it unfolds before starting your own, just to cut down on any confusion.

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About Me

I'm a Poet/Screenwriter, amateur Philosopher and wannabe Artist interested in all things Literature and Language. I'm an avid reader, mainly non-fiction, reference, mythology and comics. I love wordplay, comedy and puzzles. I am constantly thinking and jotting ideas down for future exploration. I'm interested in all genres of music but Metal is what I love. Really enjoy Movies A-LOT and am a glutton for punishment, A.K.A life as a diehard Bills and Sabres fan.